


Under The Moon

by DancingOnCapitals



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blood and Gore, M/M, Werewolf John, honestly this has been a wild ride from start to finish, pardon my language, tell me how you liek it please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:32:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4951891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingOnCapitals/pseuds/DancingOnCapitals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John did not get shot in Afghanistan.<br/>He got bitten. And it changed him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Secret

 

It wasn't until they got familiar and each's habits slowly grew into theirs that Sherlock noticed a frequency in John's absentmindedness.

His flat made would be gone suddenly every other night. He'd come back in the morning exhausted and ruffled and overall be very thin-skinned.  
  


"John?" He Sherlock began the other day, "You know you can tell me if you have problems, right?"  
  


John, who was sitting over the morning paper with a cup of tea in one hand and the other rested beneath the news, looked up.

"Huh?" He made a noise.

"Sorry. What did you say?"  


"If you got problems and need assistance in solving them, I'd be glad to help you." Sherlock said.

After a pause and by the sight of his friend's confused face he explained "your absence every other night hasn't gone unnoticed."

   
John lay down the papers and took a sip of his tea before replying. It had gone cold in his hands.

"I don't know what you're talking about Sherlock. As if anyone could keep a secret from you."  
  


Sherlock looked at him for a while. He couldn't believe that John would lie to his face. He had noticed the fur; and he has noticed the torn clothes.

"You know we can talk about it if you want a dog." he tried again.

 

"A dog?!" John now looked even more confused.

"Sherlock, I don't want a dog. What's the matter?"

 

He saw that there was no sense in continuing this charade so Sherlock did something he had only done once or twice in his life: he gave in.

"Alright. Won't ask again then."

He mumbled and turned away leaving John alone at the kitchen table.

* * *

 

 

Sherlock couldn't leave it alone. Especially now that the four week period was almost over again.

Every four weeks, John would disappear and come back in the morning in a strange mood and physical state and Sherlock just couldn't figure out what it was.

The fact that John, apparently, had tried to hide it from Sherlock didn't make it easier for him to find out what was going on.  
  


He decided tired and talk again to his blogger whose posts had become less romantic but sounded more frustrated now that those three mysterious days came nearer and nearer.

It was Tuesday morning when Sherlock decided to approach John again.  


"It's almost Thursday." Sherlock said. Thursday was the day he calculated to be the day exactly four weeks since it had begun the last time.

"What's on Thursday?" John replied, his mind more on his toast than what Sherlock said.

Another strange thing. Usually, John would listen very carefully to what Sherlock had to say, even though he didn't show it that obvious. Or at least not to the eyes of stupid people.  


"I don't know. You tell me." Sherlock said. He was paying the closest attention to John's movements and reactions but he couldn't sense anything. His abilities failed him.  


"Nothing, Sherlock. We don't have a case, appointment or anything. There is nothing on Thursday but a day." John didn't even look up.  


Sherlock decided to follow John.  


Thursday came and passed. John was boring as usual and so was Sherlock.  


But on Friday, John didn't come home from his late shift at the hospital he took since they hadn't had a case in a long time.  
  


Usually John would come home very late and then sneak up the stairs, trying to not make any sound, and go to bed immediately. Friday night was different and Sherlock wondered but couldn't do anything but wait.  
  


The next morning came frosty and grey. John came home around 8 o'clock, even greyer than the sky and more exhausted than he'd ever look after a shift at the hospital.

He sneaked up the stairs and disappeared behind the door of his room, barely making a noise on his way up.

Sherlock heard him.

Sherlock saw him.

Sherlock was relieved he was alive, not so well maybe, but alive.  
  


It wasn't before noon that John was seen again. Sherlock decided to interrogate and went upstairs.

He knocked. Once. Twice.

Just when he lifted his hand to knock a third time he heard muffled sounds from inside. The door opened just a bit and a swollen face appeared between door and doorway.

John was pale and his eyes were red. He looked terrible.  
  


Sherlock blinked at the sight of desolate John.  
  


"John? What happened?"

"Nothing, Sherlock, really." John was almost in audible. His voice scratchy and his breathing inconsistent.

 

Sherlock pushed the door open and entered without asking for permission, almost knocked down John whose stand was not stable enough against the push. He stumbled aside and sank onto his bed.

 

"It doesn't look like nothing, John. This has been going in for months now. Every month you leave three nights in a row only to come back exhausted and sick." Sherlock had talked faster and faster.

"You obviously lie, because I deduced that you haven't been at the hospital but on a dog ranch. Are you working in a dog ranch? If you need money you can ask me, Jo..."

 

"Stop!" John interrupted.

"Are you serious? Me, working in a dog ranch? AT NIGHT?"

"That is the inky possible explanation."

"No, it isn't, Sherlock. And I'd appreciate it if you would accept the fact that I don't want to tell you instead of making wild assumptions." He leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

Sherlock noticed how deflated and small John looked and decided that there was no use in nagging him further. He might be stubborn, but John Watson topped that.

 

The whole next night Sherlock was sunken in his mind-palace going through the strange things John had done since they met and trying to tie them together to see the bigger picture and figure out what it was he was missing.

John left an hour before the sun would set, he didn't even try to sneak out now, he just left.

 

When the sun was rising again, Sherlock had an idea.

He thought back of all the times he remembered when John had spent the three nights out and noticed that it actually was not exactly four weeks between each of the first night. Sometimes it were less and sometimes a little more than 28 days. He still could not find a pattern.

 

* * *

 

It was the morning after the third night that Sherlock decided to find out one and for all.

He waited for John to come home up in his room. In a chair under the window he sat and silently waited for his flat mate.

One hour after sunrise, he heard steps, heavy and slow. John was climbing up the stairs.

Sherlock braced himself, sat up straight and waited.

A few moments later the door swung open and John stumbled inside. He was pale almost white and had a feverish glim in his eyes. Without taking notice of Sherlock he fell onto his bed fully clothed and fell asleep.  
  


Sherlock waited.  
  


4 hours later, John woke up. He sniffed then rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling. His hands ruffled through his hair and he tried to calm his breathing. Suddenly he was quiet, held his breath.

He had noticed the intruder in his room and slowly lifted his head.

A sigh, a grunt and Sherlock heard a whisper "you'll never give up, will you?"  
  


"Tell me John. If you're not lying to me about the correctness of my deduction then I can't figure out what is leaving you so desolate every month." Sherlock spoke soft.

"I'm ... I am... I am worried about you, John."

 

John sat up straight and stared at Sherlock in wonder.

"The great Sherlock Holmes. Worried about something or someone. Am I dreaming?"

 

"Please, John. Tell me. What is it that you can't tell me. Have I ever judged you?" Sherlock heard himself say. Such an emotional outburst was unusual for him. He looked down in shame.

 

That was when John noticed the seriousness in Sherlock. "I can't tell you Sherlock. I am trying to protect you, you have to believe me."

 

"I won't stop trying to figure out what is destroying you. So you better tell me now and save us a great deal if nerves." He was back. This had worked on Mycroft once, it would work on John too.

And it did.

 

"Alright, but don't laugh and don't say I hadn't told you I couldn't tell." John said, stood up and stepped towards the mirror on the wall opposite the window.

"What I am telling you know is the truth. I am telling you this because I trust you and I care for you and I don't want you to sniff around and get into trouble or danger because your genius mind couldn't rest on that."

He paused and stared at the reflection of his eyes.

Sherlock observed him. Observed his tightened body. Observed the tensed jaw in the mirror and observed John observing him.

"Promise me something first!" John had turned around and a few big steps later stood over Sherlock.

 

"I don't promise." Sherlock said.

 

John knelt down before him and placed his hands on Sherlock's "promise one time and only this, then." John spoke softly.

 

"I can't." Sherlock replied leaning forward.

 

John was now leaning forward too and his whisper was just more than a whiff.

"Promise me you won't ever follow me into the night, Sherlock. Promise me you won't ever follow me in one of these nights."

 

"What?" Sherlock was confused. This wasn't quite the promise he had counted on.

 

"Please Sherlock," John whispered their faces almost touching. "Please don't follow me, promise me this one thing."

 

Sherlock hesitated. He closed his eyes and sucked in the air between them, John's exhaled breath with a hint of iron.

"I promise" he whispered back.

 

John leaned his forehead against Sherlock's and closed his eyes as well.

"Sherlock. I didn't get shot in Afghanistan." He pulled down the collar of his shirt and revealed his left shoulder. The scar was not clean. It didn't look like a bullet wound. It was bigger and messier. It looked like...

"I got bitten. Someone or something bit me. Since then, nothing was the same.

We didn't notice at first, but then one night... I was back in England at the military hospital. They had place me in a two-bed room. Fortunately PTSD had forced them to cuff me to the bed and I was alone when it happened. I changed."

John opened his eyes and leaned back to look at Sherlock, who looked at him with a face he could not understand.

So he continued.

"The nights I leave Sherlock. It isn't exactly every four weeks. sometimes it's earlier sometimes later" he nodded at his calendar.

"It's full moon. I am a werewolf, Sherlock."

 

 

"If you dent want to tell me, fine I will find out but don't make me promise something before making fun of me." Sherlock stood up.

 

"No, I am not lying, Sherlock.

The dog hair, the three days every four weeks. The torn clothes, the dirt. The exhaustion and the moodiness." John counted at his fingers.

"All these things are me. This is me transforming into a beast, everyone's under the full moon." He dropped on his feet and his torso sank forwards.

"I am so tired, Sherlock. Tired of hiding. Tired of lying. Tired of sneaking out. I am tired of being alone."

 

Sherlock looked down at his friend and their eyes met. John's eyes were filled with tears but they did not fall with a begging in them.

"Please believe me Sherlock, please believe me." He continued on and on.

 

Sherlock knelt down and reached forward.

And so they sat there. Sherlock holding John and John holding onto Sherlock like for dear life.

 

"I believe you, John" he whispered. "I believe you and we will figure something out."

 

* * *

 

 

"I will see you in the morning, don't forget your promise!" John called towards the kitchen as he left the living room.

 

Sherlock, who was experimenting just replied with a "bye!" And continued to distract himself from John leaving for his transformation.

He was worried but he did not show.

 

It was the first full moon, or one day before that, since John had told him his secret and Sherlock was not sure if he was worried less now that he knew what was going on.

John had told him about the routine.

How he would leave with enough time to spare before sunset and chained himself in the woods, in an abandoned cabin he had found. There he would transform into a werewolf and back into a human without roaming free. It was far enough from people so even if he broke free he wouldn't reach any inhabited house for hours.

 

Sherlock's question if he ever broke free was answered with a simple "don't worry" which made Sherlock worry even more, so he was wide awake the whole night when John was not there.

He felt so alone and small in the bed that he got up around four in the morning and waited for John to return.

 

Sometime after sunrise the door swung open and John enters the living room. He looked good.

 

Sherlock was surprised and confused. He must have had his questions written all over the face.

John giggled and said "I don't know either. I didn't change."

He went into the kitchen filled the kettle and looked at the moon calendar.

"Maybe we made a mistake?"

 

Sherlock got up "mistake? No. Today is Monday. It's full moon."

 

John's smile widened and he turned around. "I have a theory."

 

"What theory?" Sherlock asked.

 

"Ever since I told you I feel less tense and stressed about the whole thing because I don't have to keep it to myself anymore."

 

"And you think this is the reason you didn't transform?" Sherlock did not even try to cover his doubts.

 

"I read a lot about the mythology and did some research the past few months and some cultures agree that a werewolf who is not stressed and feeling safe doesn't transform into a wolf under full moon because the inner beast is believed to be fed by that." John explained. "Maybe telling you and having you starved the wolf."

 

Sherlock stepped towards John and cupped his face in his hands "I wish this to be true. But we have to make sure."

 

"I will go to the cabin tonight, Sherlock. I have to be sure before doing anything stupid."

 

And so he went and Sherlock waited.

 

The next night John went again.

 

He came back in the morning. Relaxed and well.

 

So John and Sherlock enjoyed each other and spent the nights together.

Since John wasn't so tensed anymore he was more observant and he solved small cases himself.

 

They would solve murders and other crimes and John would solve those small intrigues that clients would hire Sherlock for but Sherlock would decline those unnecessary human things.

 

Their lives were exciting and seldom boring.

John's blog grew more and more popular and Sherlock taught John chemistry.

 

The night before full moon they decided to visit the cabin and celebrate their love and John's freedom so they packed their bags, called a cab and left.

 

It was a long drive. Past London's outskirts and fields where soy and corn ripened.

 

No house was to be seen when they reached the trees an paid the cab driver.

 

The sun was almost down when they reached the cabin.

 

"Here it is" John introduced Sherlock to a small building. One storey high and just big enough for a small table, a bed, a small closet and something that reminded of a kitchen.

 

"Home sweet home" John joked when they entered.

 

Sherlock followed in and immediately noticed the chains hanging from the ceiling. A big log that carried the roof secured the chains.

"Oh John." He sighed and turned around.

John stood at the table his bag sat on a stool.

 

"I know. It's cozy isn't it" he smiled at Sherlock but his smile carried pain.

Sherlock rushed forward and kissed John. Hard and deep.

John kissed back and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist.

 

They sank on the bed, their arms and legs entangled and continued kissing on the rough sheets.

 

There was only them. The two of them. In the cabin. They forgot time. It was only them. The sun sank.

Only the two of them in the whole world.

 

The spell was broken.


	2. Under The Moon

Lestrade was tired.

He had not slept all night.

Full moon always kept him awake.

He hated the moon.  


The telephone rang.

"Lestrade!" He answered.  
  


"There has been a murder. You should come." The voice at the other end of the line sounded familiar. And urgent.  
  


He noted the address and left.

 

Three hours later he arrived.  


It was dark here.

The windows were dirty and did not let the sunlight through.

Someone made light.

He wished for the darkness to return.  
  


The small room was full of blood.

The dirt at the windows was not dirt.

Two bags lay on the floor.

It was wet. So were the bags.

The bags were torn and what had been stuffed inside was scattered all over the room.

The bed was broken and scratched.

Everything was red.

and there in the middle of a lake of red was a face. Or it had been one. It was torn apart and so was the body it belonged to.  
  


"The heart is gone." The coroner said when Lestrade stepped closer.

It was hard for him to tell what wasn't gone. The body was torn open and the guys spilled everywhere.

 

He did not recognise the face. It was too destroyed.  
  


"I found his coat." The officer who had turned in the light held it up. it was dark and heavy and soaked in blood.  
  


Lestrade looked around.

Dark hair everywhere.

He looked at the face.

He did not recognise it.

He looked at the coat.

He recognised it.

The long coat with the collar that used to be popped.

The long coat belonging to this tall men who used to combine it with a blue scarf.

  
He stumbled out of the cabin and barfed his soul out.

 

Lestrade was tired.

He had not slept all night.

Full moon always kept him awake.

He hated the moon.

But he had loved the lunar eclipse four weeks ago.


End file.
